The room stilled. The question was blasphemy, but no one dared rebuke him.
"A werewolf," Gabriel continued. "A werewolf is our queen. She carries a bloodthirsty heir, a monster. Is that what you want as your future?"
A few men shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to one another, but none spoke. He had them listening, and he pressed harder.
"Damien covered up the illegal smuggling of blood by his wife and Sage Veyron," Gabriel said. "Do you know what that means? Weakness. Who knows how many more sins he conceals beneath that brooding mask of righteousness?"
A slow murmur rippled around the table, unease becoming agreement. Gabriel saw it, tasted it. He leaned back once more, sipping from his glass.
"This city," he added, "deserves a king who will not bow to mongrels, who will not sully the blood of our ancestors, who will not risk our empire for the lust of one cursed bond. Ask yourselves, gentlemen… is Damien that king?"
